tion at his disposal,
drops off into instant and heavy slumber. The hours from two till five
in the afternoon are usually the most uneventful of the twenty-four,
and are therefore devoted to hardly-earned repose.

But there is to be little peace this afternoon. About half-past three,
Bobby Little, immersed in pleasant dreams--dreams of cool shades and
dainty companionship--is brought suddenly to the surface of things
by--

"Whoo-oo-_oo_-oo-UMP!"

--followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dug-out. Earth and
small stones descend in a shower upon him.

"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head
out of the dug-out.

"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any
casualties?"

The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel,
which explodes a few yards short of the parapet, and showers bullets
and fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth
follow. Then comes a pause. A message is passed down for the
stretcher-bearers. Things are growing serious. Five minutes later
Bobby, having despatched his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds
with all haste to Captain Blaikie's dug-out.

"How many, Bobby?"

"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid,
sir."

Captain Blaikie looks grave.

"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming
from?"

"That wood on our left front, I think."

"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"

A figure appears in the doorway.

"Yes, sirr."

"Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27.
Retaliate!"

"Verra good, sirr."

The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five minutes.

"Major Cavanagh's compliments, sirr, and he is coming up himself for
tae observe from the firing trench."

"Good egg!" observes Captain Blaikie. "Now we shall see some shooting,
Bobby!"

Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by an orderly, who
pays out wire as he goes. The major adjusts his periscope, while the
orderly thrusts a metal peg into the ground and fits a telephone
receiver to his head.

"Number one gun!" chants the major, peering into his periscope;
"three-five-one-nothing--lyddite--fourth charge!"

These mystic observations are repeated into the telephone by the
Cockney orderly, in a confidential undertone.

"Report when ready!" continues the major.

"Report when ready!" echoes the orderly. Then--"Number one gun ready,